


Handprints and Painted Stories

by SatiricalDraperies



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, TRSB 2020, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, discussions of mortality, mentions of past trauma/PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatiricalDraperies/pseuds/SatiricalDraperies
Summary: The cave has had many occupants over the years, men and elves and orcs and dwarves all. They come seeking shelter, a respite from the world outside. Oftentimes they do not find it. The world has a way of creeping in to even the most remote nooks and crannies. Still, sometimes it is enough to have a roof above your head and solid ground beneath your feet.Sometimes it is not.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Tuor & Voronwë (Tolkien)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Handprints and Painted Stories

**Author's Note:**

> I had such a lovely time working on this with the wonderful Lferion! You can see their artwork [here](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/50271388732_182a0f5ebe_o.png) if the embedded image doesn't load for you
> 
> Also to give credit where credit is due: the structure of this piece was heavily inspired by the structure of the novel _Cloud Atlas_ by David Mitchell
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

This is an apathetic land. Some say it is harsh, others say it is nurturing. They are both wrong. You, looking down from up above, see that it is neither. The land cannot gather you in its arms any more than it can pierce you through your gut. Of course, you are wrong as well.

The land loses much of its personality when seen from the air. Mountains appear like hills and hills appear like plains. Trees grow together into moss-like forests that blanket the ground. From the air, the land is smoother and less distinct. Fields do not show the hard work of their farmers, only the monotonous rows of crops. Villages do not show the myriad of lives they hold, only the plumes of smoke from cooking fires. Roads do not show the travelers that pass over them, only the combined efforts of foot after foot after foot.

This is what you see from the air. To see the land, to really _know_ the land, you must get closer. You must descend from the sky to see the land at eye level through those people who shape the land and are shaped by it in turn.

* * *

Brihtiua presses all of her considerable weight against the boulders blocking the entrance—and exit—of the cave. She’s spent perhaps more time than she should have investigating a way to dislodge the blockage, to no avail. If the rocks will not move, nothing anyone does will change that. 

“We go deeper,” she says. Looking at the small band of haggard faces surrounding her in the flickering torch light, she starts to feel the same gloom searching for a crack in her armor to sink in. She won’t let it. 

“You heard her,” Cwenevuire says, her wife and second in command coming to stand beside her at what used to be the mouth of the cave. “We press onwards.”

Brihtiua gives her a grim look. Any attempt at a smile would be a lie and the two of them swore themselves to the truth long ago. 

The truth. It is so easy for lies to slip in, exaggerations and inferences that only hurt. The truth is that a landslide has sent boulders down the mountain before them. The truth is that their hunting party entered the cave to avoid being crushed. The truth is that they cannot leave the cave the same way they entered, but that does not mean that they cannot find another way out.

The truth is as slippery as the rocks tumbling down the mountainside, so volatile and yet so immoveable by any amount of human force.

Leofhere takes point, holding his torch high above his head as a beacon for the others to follow. He is a good hunter, and a good man besides. Brihtiua has trusted him with her life more times than she can remember and many of their group can say the same. They will follow Brihtiua where she leads, but Leofhere’s presence and support is comforting nonetheless.

They walk deeper into the cave. The ground is not as smooth here and some of the younger hunters stumble before catching themselves and carrying on. Brihtiua wishes for their sake that she could order a break and let everyone rest but she knows that their best chance of survival comes from a continued march. As long as they keep moving, the despair cannot catch up. That, more than anything, is the real killer.

* * *

The cave has had many occupants over the years, men and elves and orcs and dwarves all. They come seeking shelter, a respite from the world outside. Oftentimes they do not find it. The world has a way of creeping in to even the most remote nooks and crannies. Still, sometimes it is enough to have a roof above your head and solid ground beneath your feet. 

Sometimes it is not.

* * *

Beren hates these mountains. Not all mountains, mind you, but these ones feel so _desolate_. He saw one hawk fly overhead at noon and nothing since. It just isn’t right. Logically, he knows that there must be life here that he isn’t seeing, but it’s still uncomfortable. 

The hard rock underneath his sleeping roll isn’t helping either. He’s slept in worse places and he knows this particular cave could be much worse. At least it’s dry and—as far as he can tell—uninhabited. It isn’t brag that he could defend himself against any creature hidden in the depths of the cave. He’s killed his fair share of bears and cats and wolves in his day. Even a pack of orcs couldn’t stand against him, tired and sore as he is. Some things run deeper than exhaustion.

The moon is full tonight and its light makes patterns on the wall. Beren squints his eyes and looks closer. Those aren’t imagined images; he sees the marks of past men painted all across the wall.

It’s definitely the work of men. No one else would leave such a mix of handprints and painted stories. Dwarves carve into stone intricate patterns full of delicate artistry. Orcs shape their art out of stamped rocks and leaves, exact replicas of their world. And elves don’t leave markings at all. They take their stories with them, stored in their eternal minds where they will never be lost but they will also never be found.

Beren finds it sad. Maybe it’s different to an immortal, but he finds hope in the proof that there were others before him. It gives him an assurance that the world goes on regardless.

* * *

The elves may not paint their stories on the walls of caves, but their lives are not invisible. The great elven cities of Gondolin and Rivendell and all the rest rise and fall as cities are wont to do. They leave their mark in lonely arches and crumbled walls and weathered tapestries torn apart and strewn across the ground. Even fallen and destroyed, elven cities maintain their airs of importance. You cannot see their ruins and not wonder at their unfathomable magnificence.

* * *

Tuor thinks he’s finally starting to get used to Voronwë. It’s been a week and a half, two weeks maybe, of traveling together and even though the elf has his moments, it’s more unsettling than outright terrifying. Voronwë is nothing like the elves that Tuor has known. The elves of Mithrim were like fog, intangible but always present. Voronwë is more solid and yet less aware of the world around him, almost like some unconcerned force of nature. 

“Half a league more,” Voronwë says. It’s the only thing he has said all day. Tuor doesn’t even bother asking what is half a league away. He may not understand Voronwë, but he has not led them astray yet. Of course, it has been nearly a full fortnight without any sign of Gondolin, but Tuor has faith that they’ll make it. He has spent this much time traveling already; what’s another fortnight?

The sky clears and the sun peeks through—just barely. Tuor hadn’t noticed the passage of time while they were navigating the steep, rocky mountains, too focused on the ground beneath his feet. Evening is upon them.

“Should we make camp?” he asks. It’s not that he’s afraid of the dark. There is nothing out there that he could not fight off. Still, it’s better to not leave anything to chance.

“Over that ridge,” Voronwë replies.

Tuor sighs. He wonders how old Voronwë is, that seven years at sea did not diminish his memory of the land. Sometimes he thinks that it isn’t memory guiding him but an instinctive sense, like the land speaks to him and tells him its secrets. Tuor has never heard of anyone, not even elves, knowing the land without learning it first, but perhaps this is an ability unique to the elves of Gondolin.

They reach the top of the ridge and sure enough, there is a small cave waiting for them. Tuor scrambles down the rocky slope and draws his knife at the entrance of the cave. Any sort of wild beast could be inside.

Voronwë walks in heedlessly. 

Tuor shakes his head and sheathes his blade before following him in. Apparently common sense and caution mean nothing compared to the foresight of elves.

They cook a rabbit they had caught earlier and eat it in silence. Even once the meal is done, neither one of them moves to set up the bedrolls. It’s not that they don’t need the rest. Well, maybe Voronwë doesn’t, but Tuor definitely does. He won’t be able to keep up the pace tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, without getting at least a bit of sleep each night. The sky is just so clear out here in the mountains that he doesn’t want to close his eyes and lose sight of the stars.

“It’s a lovely night,” he says, not really expecting a response. 

“I suppose it might be.”

Tuor is shocked to not only hear Voronwë but to see him move to sit next to Tuor at the mouth of the cave. 

“If you squint,” Voronwë says, “the mountains become waves. The wind is not the same, but it’s close.”

“Too close?” Tuor knows of the tragedy that befell Voronwë on his voyage. He only wonders if there might have been something good enough at sea to offset the ending.

“You have to squint,” Voronwë repeats. “If you open your eyes, the similarities disappear.”

Tuor knows that tone of voice. It’s the same inflection he used after escaping the Easterlings. 

_If you squint, the trees become men. The cries of foxes are not the same as the cries of thralls, but it’s close. You have to squint. If you open your eyes, the similarities disappear._

They fade, at least.

* * *

The landscape changes easily, much more so than anyone might imagine. Even the most ancient of elves or the most learned of men have no more than the slightest idea of the world’s constant metamorphosis. Some things must exist outside of the boundaries of consciousness. It is enough that they are felt, even if they are not known directly.

* * *

“Do you think they have thunder in the West?” Hanu asks.

“Can’t imagine they don’t,” says Vione. She sits at the edge of the cave, just out of reach of the rain.

“What do you think it’s like?” 

“The West? Probably not that different from here. Land is land.” Vione shrugs. The god on horseback promised Light, and he said it like that too, with a capital L. She doesn’t get what’s so great about Light though. There’s the stars and the lightning and that’s Light enough for her.

“I bet it’s beautiful,” Hanu says. “I bet there’s lightning that doesn’t burn and rain that doesn’t freeze and wind that doesn’t knock you over.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“Maybe to you.” Hanu walks over to sit besides her. “Do you ever wish you had gone with him?”

She’s talking about the god on horseback. Vione sneers. She has no need for gods on horseback or the Light that they claim is all-powerful but that they cannot bring with them.

“Do you?”

* * *

The caves of Valinor are nothing like the caves of Middle Earth. They are illuminated by glow worms and lightning bugs, their brilliance amplified by the crystals embedded in every wall. The floors are not rock but soft moss; the ceilings are high with curved arches to maximize acoustics. These caves are not sanctuaries. How can they be, when all of Valinor is a sanctuary?

* * *

This storm is weak compared to the winds of the Helcaraxë, but that’s not saying much. There comes a point where you can’t get much more hopeless. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed since the sunset—it will be dark until sunrise either way.

Fingon doesn’t think that sunrise is coming for him.

He won’t let himself complain, though. It’s only been a few days since he left and Thangorodrim is still far enough off that he couldn’t see the stronghold if he squinted. Even if the skies were clear and the landscape wasn’t so jagged, he’d still be left squinting. 

The wind stops for a moment. Fingon takes half a breath before it picks up again, stealing away his half-breath and his harp. He instinctively reaches out to grab it before the storm can destroy the workmanship. It may have not been the best idea to bring the finely crafted instrument on a rescue mission, but it’s too late for regrets now. 

As his fingers strain to wrap around the neck of the harp, he feels the weight of his pack pulling against his shoulders. It feels even heavier than it did leaving, despite the diminishing store of food and drink. Why is the weight increasing?

He grasps the harp solidly and suddenly there is no more weight against his back. Fingon pulls himself around to watch his pack soar through the air, rations falling out as the wind turns it inside out, emptying every last pocket until it tears apart the pack itself, ripping threads and destroying seams and reducing it to limp pieces of leather and twine. 

At least his bow and quiver are still firmly attached to his belt, along with a hunting knife. It’s not nothing, but it’s close.

Through the curtains of wind and rain, Fingon thinks he can see an outcropping up ahead. If he’s lucky, it will provide a full respite from the storm. The way his day has been going, he could use some luck.

He stumbles towards the faint outline of a cave and falls in. The wind is still screaming outside but it cannot reach him in here. The cave is damp but not soaked, cold but not freezing, inhospitable but not hostile. It will do.

Looking at his meager possessions spread out on the rocky floor, it’s easy to measure his supplies in what he doesn’t have. The storm has taken his food, his drink, half of his already limited stock of arrows, his map, his compass, his bedroll, his cloak… The storm has taken everything. He cannot even bear to play his harp and sing a tune to cheer himself up. What good is a song? A song cannot save him from hunger or exhaustion. A song cannot save his cousin.

Poor Maedhros! Fingon can only hope this storm does not reach his cousin in Thangorodrim, if he is there at all. How tragic, that Fingon’s greatest hope is his cousin’s suffering. He cannot help but to imagine Maedhros suffering, waiting for rescue. Is he still waiting? Or has he given up hope entirely, like Fingon is close to doing now?

He must hold on to the hope that Maedhros is suffering as he is. So much has happened since they last saw each other. Fingon supposes he should hate his cousin after the burning of the ships at Losgar, but he can’t bring himself to think of Maedhros with anything other than love. It could not have been Maedhros’ decision to leave Fingolfin’s host behind. If Fingon knows him, and he most certainly does, his cousin would have been fighting the order until the torches hit the ship decks, and maybe even after that. 

Regardless of what has happened since then, Fingon is still willing to do anything to save his cousin. They will never be able to go back to the way things were in Valinor but that doesn’t mean they can’t move forward together.

His bow. Several arrows. A serrated knife. And his harp. It will be enough. 

There’s nothing he can do for Maedhros now except wait out the storm and try to rest and restore his strength. He will need it in the coming days. 

Moving deeper into the cave, there are clear signs of other past inhabitants. A ring of small stones encircles the remnants of a fire. The rock underneath seems to be permanently scorched and blackened. Someone spent many nights here.

He looks up. Handprints fill the wall. Despite the faint illumination, he can see shades of red and gray and brown dusted around the negative images. Fingon holds his own hand up against the paintings. These must have been created by men, not elves. The fingers are short and the palms are square. Fingon’s hand appears massive and alien compared to them. 

Why did they paint their images on the cave?

And then he looks back down at his own hand, dirty and scratched and still shaking from the cold and physical exertion of traveling through the storm. This is not the hand of a refined elf: clean, with polished nails and calluses only from the strings of an instrument. This is not an immortal hand.

Fingon knows on a rational level that elves can die. He’s certainly seen plenty of it, from Alqualonde and Helcaraxë both. Family and friends and complete strangers: they have all died in front of him. But it still seems so detached. The idea of his own death has always been inconceivable. Even during the worst nights, when Aredhel hadn’t speared an animal in weeks and the chattering of teeth was louder than the grinding ice, it still never occurred to him that he could be the one to not wake up the next morning. 

Something about the handprints brought out these thoughts in him. Even if he made it through this storm (and he would), he was still planning on marching up to Thangorodrim and demanding the release of someone who might as well be dead himself.

So much could go wrong. The storm could continue for days and keep him trapped in here. He could run into a band of orcs too numerous to fight off. Thangorodrim could have no holes in its security for him to slip through. Maedhros could be… 

No. He can’t think like that. Fingon is perhaps less spiritual than some of his brethren, but even if he doesn’t believe his thoughts have the power to influence his fate, they most certainly can influence his actions. The slightest bit of doubt or hesitation can make the difference between a successful mission and a failure. Right now, he doesn’t have the luxury of taking that chance.

He looks back at the handprints on the wall. They tell a story of the men who left them, but Fingon doesn’t need a handprint to tell his story. He and Maedhros will do that themselves once they return to their family. 

And they _will_ return.

* * *

Men may paint stories on cave walls, but it is the elves more than anyone else who _believe_ in stories. They have traversed continents and seen their gods. They have met their ancestors and will know their descendants. They build kingdoms and abandon them to war or boredom or both.

They live long enough to construct narratives and live even longer to tear them apart.

* * *

“Do you?” Vione asks again. “Do you ever wish you left for the West?”

“Sometimes,” Hanu admits. “Sometimes when the storms get bad and we’re stuck out here away from the others.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“But it could be better! He promised Light, Vione. Can you imagine?”

Vione can’t. She likes this world, dark and violent as it may seem. The thunder sounds like her heartbeat and the wind reminds her that she is strong enough to stand against it. All the forces of the world cannot break her. Even now, stuck in this shelter waiting for the storm to pass, she can’t imagine another world. 

“No hurricanes,” Hanu says wistfully. “No blizzards or mudslides or thunderstorms.”

Take that away and what do you have left? Nowhere that Vione would want to live.

“Get some sleep, Hanu. We’ve got a long hike ahead of us,” she says. “The West is just a dream. Go to it in your sleep if you must, but don’t take me with you.”

* * *

Arda is not like other, more distant planets. Its surface may change, passages opening and closing over lifetimes, but its place in the universe does not. The sun and moon and stars all move around Arda, traversing the same paths day in and day out. These paths may look different each time you blink open and close your eyes, but the forces that be keep them steady amidst the unrelenting tides of fate that upheave even the most enduring of civilizations.

Arda is not like other, more constant planets. Its sky may not change, but its people do.

* * *

“You see different stars,” Voronwë remarks. Tuor hears the unspoken “too”.

“Yes.” No sense in denying it. He may not speak much of his past, but he has answered all of Voronwë’s questions about his times with Annael and Lorgan both, speaking of the good and of the bad with equal amounts of candor and frankness.

“I have not met many men. Tell me, do the stars mean the same to you as they do to elves?”

“I have not met many men either,” Tuor admits. “And I did not like the few men that I did meet. The stars, though, I do like the stars.”

“I do not,” Voronwë says. He looks out at the place where the shadow of the mountain meets the shadow of the sky. “At least the ocean is honest. It may be an uncontrollable force, but the stars are unreachable. I used to love them as all elves love them, but now they are impersonal and an eternity away.”

“But you have eternity to reach them!”

Voronwë doesn’t respond, not for a long while. Tuor thinks that he may have finally pushed too far and closed this connection that has started to form between the two of them. 

“You will fit in well in Gondolin,” he finally says. 

“Really?” Tuor does not question his destiny to carry Ulmo’s message to Gondolin, but sometimes he wonders why he was chosen. Was it random chance? Or did Ulmo see something in him that made him uniquely suited for this quest? As much as he is honored to be Ulmo’s messenger, it still strikes him as odd that the Vala would choose a man instead of an elf. The Valar do not concern themselves with men in Tuor’s experience. He has not known any other men with any sort of connection to any of the Valar. They are distant gods, meant for the elves. Even growing up with elves, Tuor knew that he could not cross that boundary. He cannot go to Valinor; he cannot know the Valar; he cannot be an elf despite living as one. 

“Turgon will like you,” Voronwë says. “His daughter Idril, as well. She shares your love of the infinite.”

Tuor has never considered himself to love the infinite, but he supposes that he does. He loves the stars, the closest thing to the infinite that he can think of.

“I am eager to meet them,” Tuor says. “I only hope that they will be as glad to see me, given the message that I bear.”

“We have become used to warnings of doom and gloom,” Voronwë says. “I do not think that will alter their opinion. After all, it hasn’t altered mine.”

“I should be so lucky if all the elves of Gondolin are like you,” Tuor says. He means it, too. Voronwë may be odd and a bit perplexing at times, but he has proven himself to be a steady companion. 

He yawns, the exhaustion of the day spreading from his mind to his body.

“Get some sleep,” Voronwë says. “I’ll keep watch.”

* * *

Even the largest of caves seem small in the darkness. Perhaps it is their relative size compared to the vast world around them. To you, standing in the midst of a hollow rock, the walls stretch forever away from the entrance and the ceiling grows ever higher and higher above your head until your relative size compared to the cave around you is that of a mite compared to a mountain. 

The cave still feels small.

* * *

Beren does some calculations in his head. At this rate, it will take him three more days to get out the mountains and a week and a half until he is back in the forest. This isn’t the first time that he’s added up these numbers. They don’t change (they will never change) but there’s something comforting in the knowledge that out in the open is not infinite. Out here, there is nothing but the cold, hard rock and the stars above.

That’s another thing about the elves: their obsession with the stars. Beren likes them well enough. He certainly depends on them for navigation across new lands. But he will never understand that deep yearning the elves have to bathe under their light. He’s tried it, tried spending a night out in the open with nothing but the stars for company, and it nearly drove him mad. It felt like he would fall off the edge of the world and drown in the night. The openness was too exposed and at the same time suffocating. 

It’s not so bad in the mountains as the plains. At least here there are walls, if not a ceiling. It’s the forest that he loves though, the forest where he only truly feels at home. The dirt beneath his feet, the ferns brushing against his calves, the branches scraping his arms, the leaves above him filtering out the world until it reaches a reasonable size. He knows who he is in the woods. There’s an immediacy to it. 

In the mountains, time is infinite. They say that the mountains grow and shrink over the course of centuries. The rock is _alive_ , the dwarves say. 

Beren doesn’t see it. In his experience, the rock doesn’t change unless something makes it. If he wants time to pass, he has to make it. It’s not a pleasant feeling, to be the one pushing the hands of time forward. He could wait forever and a day in this cave and nothing would change. No rock would fall unless he pushed it.

He supposes that quality is what sets the humans apart from the other inhabitants of this land. They are all content to let the world move as it will. A few of them are more interested in causing change than the others, but they still pin their hopes on fate or destiny or what have you. 

It makes sense. The rocks of the dwarves and the stars of the elves do not move, or at least not on any perceivable scale. But the forests, the home of humans throughout the ages, the forests change. They change and grow and die over and over again and yet remain immortal _because_ of this changing nature. 

Beren lies back down in his sleeping roll. The ground is still hard against his back and the moon-washed vista outside the cave is still desolate. Three days in the mountains. Ten days to the forest.

Thirteen days home. He can live with that.

* * *

Time and space are not so separate as some people think. A distance can be measured just as well by the time it will take to traverse it as by the number of leagues making up its span. But somehow, these distances are inconstant. The journey from one location to another can take days or stretch out into weeks. Time and space may not be separate, but they do not agree. How, then, do you measure distance? How can you measure time?

* * *

They walk onwards. It could be hours or minutes in the timeless dark of the cave. Brihtuia watches the ground beneath her feet, not daring to look up for fear of a solid wall ahead. As long as her feet keep moving, she is not trapped, not really.

“Look,” Cwenevuire says, shifting her torch to her left hand to illuminate the wall of the cave. “We are not alone.”

The figures dance in the fire light. They are hunting beasts, defending their home, celebrating the alignment of the planets. It is all so familiar to Brihtiua that she almost breaks down and cries right then and there. These are the images of her home, of her people. They could be generations old or painted last night for how timeless their stories are.

“I wonder who they are,” Aelryth, the youngest hunter with them today, muses. She traces the path of a spear flying across the rock towards an unsuspecting deer. This is only her second expedition with the adult hunters and she still looks at everything with the awe of the fresh perspective of youth.

“They are us,” Brihtiua says. “Look. They wear the same braids in their hair and the same furs on their bodies. The curve of that one’s bow? It is the same as the bow Leofhere carries. And here they are dancing the same dances that we do. I do not have to wonder who they are. I know them. We all do.”

The group has stopped and turned to listen to their leader speak. Brihtiua takes a deep breath. She meets as many eyes as she can in the dying torch light before speaking again. 

“We may not see the sun again,” she starts. This is what she was made for. Hunting deer, building homes, weaving clothes: they are nothing compared to this. She holds a torch in one hand and the lives of her people in the other, leading them through the light and into the dark. 

“We may not see the moon or the stars or the forests of our home. The faces of the people we left behind may fade into memory. That does not mean that we forget them or that they forget us. We need to face the possibility that this cave is not a tunnel and that we will not leave it alive. But do not bring despair with you into the dark! Our families will live on regardless of whether we do. You have all seen the paintings on the wall. As long as our stories are told, our way of life goes on. We go on.”

Brihtiua walks past her people deeper into the cave. Leofhere’s torch flickers and goes out. She will keep walking, even when all of their other torches are burnt out as well, even when she cannot feel the ground beneath her feet, even when her legs give out entirely and she must give herself over to crawling. So long as she keeps moving, she has hope of a future where she lives on alongside her story.

* * *

This is what you see from the land: the pieces of a leather pack stolen by the storm, the picked-clean rabbit bones scattered into disarray, the fallen torches crumbled into piles of ash. You see the stories ingrained in the rocks. You see those people who walk like ants across the surface of the world and you think to yourself about the nature of the land. Is it so easily definable as hostile or nurturing or apathetic? You cannot be certain. In all your time learning the land, you have not learned it at all. 

You press your hand against the cave wall. Some of the paint stays on your hand even after you remove it, a sticky coating that will wash off easily enough. You will not carry evidence of your descent with you as you return to the sky, you creature of the air, but the land will hold on to you nonetheless.


End file.
